Sun Sets Down Upon the Infantry
by Helkh
Summary: The Shadow has not faded from the land, and only grows. Elves that should not be wander Middle Earth, and an unseen Evil tears at the edges of civilization. There can be no return from death, for Valinor begins to die.
1. Fire

**Sun Sets Down Upon the Infantry**

  
  
Glorfindel silently watched the dawn spilling over Imladris; a city without a soul. There was very little that could be done to restore the jovial mood that had permeated the area in days past. He imagined the intricate balconies looked as dead as the charred remains of Gondolin. The evil here was not so tangible as the traitor Maeglin, nor could it be truly fought, as it had been in the War. 

Uneasy winds swept the valley and terrible storms raged throughout the winter. Vilya no longer weaved the patterns of nature, protecting the valley and keeping Imladris safe from prying enemy eyes. Already remains of the Shadow had filtered in, though promptly killed and removed through the Bruinen.

Mundane illness plagued the vegetation; bitter sadness tugged at the lingering inhabitants. There was absolutely nothing that could be done, for their Lord had already passed westward. Fighting often broke out. Even the stubborn Erestor had to admit that things were falling apart.

Glorfindel turned from the balcony, running a hand through his tangled hair. A thick knot in his stomach had kept him awake throughout the night, a sense of foreboding consuming his thoughts.

Erestor had silently fallen into step, sharing the uneasiness and needing not to voice it. After walking to the lower gardens in silence, he spoke up. "Elrohir has returned. Alone."

"Without his brother?"

The Noldor paused for a moment. "Perhaps you can find some coherence in him. He is still in the stables."

Glorfindel caught his shoulder and steered him bodily towards the barns. "Does this have something to do with the ill feelings I've had since last night?" he hissed. Erestor remained silent, closing his eyes briefly.

  
They found him slumped against his bay mare weeping bitterly. Stained and splashed with mud, Elrohir stood out starkly against his steed that he had furiously groomed to a gleaming sheen in his rage. He threw Glorfindel's hand from his shoulder and turned a viscous glare upon him.

"The Ring has been destroyed," he snarled. "Why does the Shadow still grow and spread like some sickly disease?"

Erestor sighed. "You make no sense, Lord."

Elrohir drew a shuddering breath. "I had to kill him myself. Myself! The Shadow still takes us one by one. Tell me why, O great Councillor! If you can deal judgement upon any you see fit without remorse, why have you not yet sentenced this evil city to death? How can you turn a blind eye to the killings beginning to multiply in number amongst us as though we were mere mortal men fighting for wealth? Is this some new manner of rule, or am I merely grasping charred straws?" 

Erestor flinched but said nothing. Elrohir snorted bitterly, whispering his next words.

"Elladan now lies in Aragorn's city. He is dead because of our blindness; our foolish hope that the darkness would simply vanish. It grows still, and we do nothing. The Firstborn are nothing more than weak fools, weaker than Mortals these days. He went mad with the Shadow's hatred of living things and tried to murder me after slaughtering many of the Rohirrim. I clove his head from his shoulders, and his blood spray was black. Why are these things happening? I can sense the dissent amongst the humans, as Elessar grows old. The peace will not last. You'll do nothing more than watch, won't you?"

Glorfindel shook his head in frustration. "What do you expect the Elves to do? There are so few of us left and our numbers never recovered since the Last Alliance."

Elrohir drew his long knife and moved to attack the Vanya. "Excuses, my Lord. Excuses covering your own inability to understand the true danger we all are in!" He stepped after his viscous swipe; turning the blade over and bringing it back swiftly. Glorfindel caught his wrist and turned it painfully enough so that the hand dropped the weapon and hung useless. Elrohir struggled briefly, and then fell against him, sobbing for air weakly. Erestor ducked under one of his arms to hold him upright and lead him back to the sleeping chambers in the east of Rivendell.

"You are insane with grief, boy. You need rest."

He received a very weak attempt at argument; mainly encompassing the fact Elrohir had seen multiple millennia pass and was no longer a boy. Glorfindel's expression was troubled as they turned from his door. "He is right, you know."

"And does that change anything? You know the Galadhrim are retreating further into the heart of their forest, and you know why. Thranduil is beginning to panic over the condition of Mirkwood and the Men are growing restless. There is still nothing we can do to help them."

"Rivendell is no longer the sanctuary it once was, but we can still shelter anyone who needs it." 

"Have you gone mad? They'll perish through infighting or disease!"

A cold silence followed the ringing slap. Erestor staggered slightly and put a hand to his bleeding cheek, staring at Glorfindel apprehensively.

"Do you think to harm me? Will it satiate some perverse need of yours to inflict pain? Even you have been touched by it, Golden Warrior." His voice was soft. Glorfindel struck him again, hard enough to send him falling into the balcony, bent uncomfortably over the rail and grasping at it for balance.

  
Timbers cracked and fell, sending showers of burning sparks flying. Distinguishing between the blood that flowed through the corridors and the raging flame licking at his every step seemed unimportant. An intricately carved beam, now blackened and bloated with fire crashed down inches behind him but passed unnoticed.

The few that still lived were already out and prepared to leave their home forever. Something hard crashed into Thranduil, throwing him bodily against the wall and sending waves of agony through his form. He rolled away from it, staggering to the final gates and slipping into the water surrounding the edges of the compound. The bridge had been taken and burned.

He made it to the remains of his people without drowning himself alive and turned to watch the last of his kingdom blacken and burn, finally closing his eyes and letting the ground race up to impact with his body.

Legolas caught his falling father and grimly nodded at the mere two-score waiting anxiously around him. "We head to Lorien," he cried over the roar of the inferno.

"It will take us days to get there," Gimli objected, racing after Legolas. Within minutes they had reached the edges of the northern woods and turned to the footpath leading around the forest. Silence descended upon the area. The Elves trotted in silence, stunned by the night's activity.

Legolas stopped to shift his father's weight onto his back. "We will not go to Rivendell."

Gimli followed him down the path once Thranduil was in a position to be carried with relative ease, an expression of beleaguered consternation marring his Dwarven features. "And why not, Elf? It's much closer, if only we could get around the north part of this blasted forest."

He didn't get a reply for some time and was about to demand an answer when the Prince spoke. " Elrond no longer rules there and the power of Vilya no longer protects Rivendell against itself." 

Gimli glared at Legolas. "Tying my brain around your riddles is a pastime I'd rather not partake in."

"It isn't safe there any longer."

The Dwarf snorted and stared out over the dark landscape. "You're batty, Elf. Rivendell was perfectly safe last time I set foot in the wretched place, unless you're smothered to death by those ghastly robes you lot insist on wearing."

"Things change."

"Pah. I don't believe you. You all think in centuries while the rest of us proper folk worry about day-to-day life. Any city of yours wouldn't change more than a pebble in a millennia!"

Legolas didn't reply. He listened to his father's shallow breathing and quickened his pace. Gimli cursed and started jogging to keep pace. "Why are we travelling this fast? Surely we must stop and do something about the wounded."

"I can smell the stench of blood strongly, I assure you. I cannot stop until we put several miles behind us."

"He's dying."

"I know that!" Legolas shouted. Heads turned to regard their Prince, wondering if he too had gone mad. He flushed and turned away angrily. "We cannot stop. There are fell things waiting for us to falter."

"Yer half cocked." Gimli ran ahead, murmuring amongst the Elves. They stopped immediately and turned to Legolas and his waterlogged burden.

"We rest here. Light a fire and get that stubborn fool to let go of his old man. I'll be back." With that, the helmeted form marched off to a small stream to retrieve water. Legolas sighed and gently laid his father in the soft grass, undressing his torso while a healer knelt beside him. A hideous burn marred most of Thranduil's side and the curve of his ribs was interrupted strangely by a dip in his torso. The bone fragment pushed up against his skin each time he exhaled.

The fire crackled sharply in the still of the night. Gimli sloshed back to the trio and put the small bucket down, fishing out a cloth and handing it to the healer, who took it with a nod of thanks. She began bathing the wound gently, allowing it to bleed. Legolas hovered around his father's head, watching anxiously but was dragged off by his Dwarven companion.

To his credit, Legolas managed to look appropriately annoyed. Gimli looked quite satisfied with himself. "There, now. Don't you feel better now that you know you're not going to be crushed under your da's dead weight?"

"That isn't funny."

He tugged on his beard thoughtfully. "I suppose that was a bit morbid. No matter. Look around you! There are no orcs hiding behind any rocks looking to eat you alive. The King is going to be able to walk around any minute now and the night is fine!"

Legolas gritted his teeth. "And most of my kingdom has been burned to the ground and it's inhabitants have been killed by their own families. Purely marvellous night."

"Elf, you're as block-headed as any human! If you go around like that, soon the rest of you will die too. And don't look at me like that. You could shrivel a prune. I know more than you give me credit for, and everyone knows how to kill an Elf these days."

"Not all of us are dead.."

"That's the spirit, lad!"

"But we'll soon be less one Dwarf if you keep it up."

Gimli swung his axe half-heartedly. "And I had such hopes for you!"

Legolas managed a brief chuckle, watching the healer work.

  
The black hair lay in tangled folds down his back as leant heavily against the engraved pillar, staring anxiously at the failing gardens. A darkness lay heavy on his heart and his ring finger began to pulse anxiously. Barely able to stand, Elrond drew a bloodstained hand across his face in sorrow.

"Ai, Elladan. What does Eru plan for these lands?"

"What, indeed," Erestor murmured from behind him. The Lord turned slowly, swaying slightly. " Why have you returned?"

Elrond allowed his councillor to lead him through the deepening dusk to a quiet chamber, making the trip in silence. Settled uneasily and bathed in candlelight he looked gaunt and deathly. Erestor shook his head and wiped the fresh blood off his face. "You went to the West."

"I did not. The pass was closed to me."

Both sat in grim silence, wondering at the reasons for this. "Your curse has not been lifted, then, Lord?"

Half-Elven snorted bitterly.

"Do you know of the Darkness continuing to spread?"

"I learned much merely fighting my way here. One of my sons is dead, and Arwen grows old. I fear my line will die before the year is out."

"That isn't what you fear."

Elrond chose not to answer, realizing his silence would be reply enough. Erestor shuddered briefly before rising. "There is something you should see."

  
He stared wearily at Glorfindel's still form, lingering on the expression of hatred and the demurely folded hands. Both clashed horribly with the wet stain pooled about his body. Erestor's face held acute sadness.

Elrond looked at him. "His blood is -"

"Black. I know." Erestor sighed and slumped against the dresser. "I killed him, Lord." 


	2. Touch of a High King

**Sun Sets Down Upon the Infantry 2**

  
  
Arwen's chin was high and firm, her tears the only thing betraying her calm. She walked silently beside her husband and when the last of the ceremony had finished, remained behind with her father and brother.

"I will pass a year from today," she murmured, bent over the sculpted vision of her beloved Elessar. "I have lost a brother, and now my husband. Father, Aragorn's death has freed our chief advisor to leave with you home. I trust he is in safe hands."

"Why does he leave Gondor? Imladris is a city of -"

"He is Noldor. I know no more than that. He has asked to be allowed passage to our House, and Estel granted him that upon his own death. Please, I mean no disrespect, but I would dearly like to be alone."

Elrohir took his father's elbow and led him away from the mourning Queen. "Come, father. Do not plague her with questions."

Elrond looked vaguely irritated. "Why would a realm of Men have an Elven councillor?"

"Why shouldn't they?"

Elrohir didn't like the sly expression Elrond wore. "Why, it seems almost sacrilegious to bestow an Elf upon the likes of Men. Especially a Noldor."

His son threw up his hands in mock despair. "Father, I shall never be able to train you!" He sobered. "But all weak jesting aside, Elessar is now dead, and therefore his lands will fall asunder. If we do take it upon ourselves to do something about it, we will have to organize some semblance of a political army."

They swept through the outer corridors of the central city structure, both tall and dark and most obviously inhuman. "Perhaps we will need more than that. Or none. We could be doomed as Eryn Lasgalen has been doomed."

Elrond flinched. "Imladris should be safe. It is hidden from unwanted eyes once more, and it's being restored."

"But Mirkwood fell from within, not without."

"Lasgalen has ever been unstable and paranoid."

Elrohir walked in silence for a few minutes. "Unstable? What are we if not unstable? Glorfindel seemed stable, did he not? You know what he intended to do to Erestor."

  
Thranduil rubbed his forehead in frustration, knocking his elbow painfully against the edge of the table and cursing. Celeborn's eyebrows raised in faint amusement, earning a dirty look from the Mirkwood King that might have melted iron. He folded his hands and managed to look both superior and somehow positively understanding about Thranduil's clumsiness. Legolas tried to ignore his father's discomfort and smother Gimli's smart remark in a loud proclamation that dinner would likely be served soon.

Once some order had been attained, Erestor began.

"Half a fortnight ago, Imladris was set upon by it's own people and burned. I do not know what has caused this, only that three remain alive and stand with me here, including myself. I have asked Haldir to send a messenger to intercept our Lord on his return from the White City. There is little else I can say."

Celeborn did not look amused. "So this is the end of three kingdoms? Has there been any word from Cirdan as to the condition of the Havens?"

"None," Rumil murmured.

Gildor shuddered. "That bodes not well, for the Way appears closed to us now. Cirdan can do nothing against the will of the Valar. If they choose to exile us, so be it."

"How can you be so callous? These times are dark, and may become darker still! They must have a reason for this," Lindir broke in.

Thranduil's glance was withering. "Perhaps you should go to Manwe this instant and demand to know his motives. I'll be sure to bring flowers to your grave."

There wasn't much that could be said to that, so Lindir sat in gloomy silence. Legolas looked on him in pity, knowing well how viscous his father's tongue could be. "Whatever we decide to do -" 

"Which is nothing, I might add."

Legolas frowned at his father. "Ada! Let me finish. Whatever we decide to do, we can't do it until Half-Elven returns. If we do anything, we need to be united."

"With THAT lot?"

"Father -"

Celeborn gazed at the angered King. "What have we done to you? You ferret yourselves away in a dark forest and hardly communicate with any other civilization, and I happen to know Lorien has done naught to anger you."

Thranduil leapt to his feet. "I remember the War!"

"I'm sure you do."

"We were driven from Lorien by your predecessor, and you dare suggest there's no wrong been done to us?"

Haldir inched his hand toward the dagger on his belt, stepping up to stand beside his Lord. Celeborn sighed. "Do you remember this, or do you merely remember what Oropher has told you? "

"Ally with Noldor is what you ask! There are those who fought against the Oath of Feanor here. They are not to be trusted! We were slaughtered in the Last Alliance -"

Celeborn rose, eyes flashing. "Only because your fool of a sire refused to listen to Gil-Galad's summons!"

"Father! Don't do this!" Legolas tugged helplessly on his father's arm.

Thranduil shook the Prince off, growling. "Refused to listen, or saw the truth?"

"You've been living in the shadows for far too long! You were a boy, and mad with grief. I'm beginning to doubt you ever recovered your mind!"

"Don't you dare -"

"ENOUGH!" Gimli roared, slamming his fist down on the table, cracking a fine line down the middle of it. Silence fell. "You act like a nest of baby crows, all squawking for dominance over a little piece of regurgitated meat! By my father's beard, you lot! If this is what Elves are really like, I'll not hang around. What's done is done. And what's done three thousand years ago is STILL done. It makes no difference. It only makes you look like a giant ass if you keep arguing about something that old. Be careful, my King," he gave a mocking bow. "Your ears might turn into that of a donkey."

He took his seat again and glanced at Legolas' pale face. The air practically crackled with hostility, but finally Thranduil sat down slowly, Celeborn following suit. Haldir let go of his dagger's hilt and joined his tense brothers.

"If it makes you any more at ease, I am Sindar and many of my people are Silvan. There are so few Noldor left alive that you have nothing to fear." Celeborn's smile looked distinctly forced. Thranduil didn't reply.

"Perhaps we should call council again when Elrond is found and brought here," Erestor ventured tentatively. "We are accomplishing very little besides stirring up old wounds."

"Wonderful idea! Dinner was to be called soon, anyway." Legolas grinned hopefully around him. He received nothing but stony frowns. Gimli grunted and left the table, dragging his friend with him, muttering about how dour immortality must make a person.

  
Elrohir returned to the camp he shared with his father after unsaddling and currying their horses down. It saddened him to realize how Arwen must die, but it had been her choice and there was nothing now that could save her. It lead him to wonder how his father had ever survived the many terrible things that had happened throughout his life, for he certainly knew how close he and Elladan had been to death when their mother had be captured and later returned to them completely without soul. Elrond had endured ages of repeated torment, starting with the wars and the death of Gil-Galad. It just went downhill from there, Elrohir knew, but there was nothing that could change it now.

His father knelt over the small fire, stirring it and apparently deep in thought. Elrohir smiled sadly, wondering at the nature of his father's curse. Perhaps it had something to do with the attack upon the Exiles and the result of Maglor's supposed kindness. Elrohir still held his doubts about the entire history of the three Silmarils but kept his unwanted opinions to himself.

A steady drumming drew his eyes across the plain they were perched above. The hill gave them a vantage point, and thick foliage protected them from view. It was the sound of hooves.

Elrohir leapt to his feet moments before the black mare burst in upon them, coming to a turf- tearing halt mere feet behind Elrond.

"Hail! My apologies for not seeking you out earlier, my Lords." The figure lowered his hood and dismounted swiftly. Elrond's face had lost all colour and Elrohir stepped forward to catch his father if he should do something stupid. Like faint.

"I'm sure there were things you had to clear up before you left. It's no worry, as long as you are here. Although we DID spend a great deal of time trying to find you. You're a rather illusive fellow, aren't you?" Elrohir laughed gently, standing just in front of Elrond.

He studied the flushed face of the missing councillor, something nagging at the back of his mind. Like a face that had been painted before, the Noldor looked almost familiar. More importantly, Elrond was standing rigid with his back to the man. Elrohir shook his father gently, worriedly noting his clenched jaw and unreadable expression.

The stranger's eyes were laughing silently as he extended a palm to Elrond's shoulder. "Come," he murmured. "Surely you have not forgotten me."

The Lord of Rivendell slowly turned at the touch, a haunted look in his eyes.

"Gil-Galad," he whispered.


	3. Memories Cold

**Sun Sets Down Upon the Infantry 3**

  
  
_They swarmed over the hills, scrabbling on the heavy stones before the Black Gate, screaming in glee. Going to their deaths. Dead amongst the Alliance littered every inch of the battlefield it seemed, but still the Men fought. Still the Elves kept their formations, cutting the onslaught in perfect harmony, and still the Enemy's power poured over the last hope of the civilized world._

On the very topmost hill, a platinum figure rolled his lance over in his hands, removing the head of his attacker with the first movement and slapping two different orcs with either end to finish the move. A beacon of hope, the fighter cast his silver shield from him, the edge catching the snarling creature at his rear in the throat. It shrieked horribly and fell, clutching at the heavy object. The warrior tore it free, shaking his hair from his face.

The heat of Mordor at that moment could not possibly hope to match the fierce hatred of the doomed army, and both races surged forward, slaughtering anything in its way. There was a chance of victory!

The standard bearer smiled grimly and ordered another volley, watching the silver figure fight alone. Acid rain began to stab at their bodies but the flashing blue beacon did not fade, for the High King was in his element and fought with all the fury of his anger. Heads turned to him, looking upon the proof of their imminent success. There could be no failure!

A sweeping cold punctured the souls of all there, causing the battle to pause. The Dark Lord showed his face.

Nothing stood between the armies and Sauron but for the one person upon that tallest hill. The High King laughed, the sound carrying over the field covered in blood and carnage.

The standard bearer could not move his eyes from the terrible scene, chilled by the sound of his King's voice. Evil raised his deadly weapon, stepping forward.

Gil-Galad rushed headlong to his death with a laughing cry upon his lips.

Screaming, the bearer watched the blood spray over the ground, over his soul.

  
Frantically, Elrohir shook his father who twisted on the ground, crying out. The sound chilled him, the cold and clear night accentuating his horror. He looked down on Elrond's writhing form helplessly.

The screaming then started, shrill and piercing, cutting the night. Elrohir's heart shrivelled away from it and he recoiled and would have fled a ways but for Gil-Galad's steady hand on his shoulder. He could hear words of denial and staggering sorrow in the long, pained cry.

The tall Elf knelt down, cradling the dark head in his arms, whispering gentle words. The stars stared coldly down, glittering jewels in a sea of black. Black of Evil, Elrohir thought bitterly. He hated the creations of Yavanna at that moment. Hated them for being so unfeeling, hated them for being there, hated them for not stopping his father's pain. And somewhere there, was his grandfather, doing nothing but watch his son's soul tear.

He clenched his fist.

  
_Blood everywhere. It was all he could see through the haze of his unseeing eyes. A deep, rolling power levelled the armies and he vaguely registered falling painfully into his soldiers. Dead! His mind screamed in denial because his voice could no longer hold up to it._

Dead!

The leader of Men crumpled against the stone where he had been thrown, blood pouring from his skull. His son rolled frantically to grab at the fallen sword, but was snapped under the armoured foot of the triumphant Dark Lord.

Dead!

Elrond snarled viciously and rolled to his knees. A blinding white light flattened the warriors again and a deep silence fell. It lasted but a moment before the legions of Evil screamed in terror and turned tail to flee. The half-human clawed his way to his feet, finding strength in blind rage.

Dead!

Taking his sword in hand, he sprinted toward the human, Isildur.

Dead, as will be any fool to stand in my way. And after that, my soul and body will be laid open for the judgement of all. I will not lose him! I cannot live!

  
"He won't wake up. Do something!"

Gil-Galad looked up wearily. "What do you suggest I do?"

Elrohir stared down helplessly, unsettled by his father's bitter tears.

  
_"I will not destroy it."_

Fire raged below, and outside lay the remains of thousands, both good and evil. Of those not born to die. And many more would die in the future, for the weakness of Men kept the darkness in the world, could not bring itself to destroy such a simple thing as a Ring.

It was the weakness of Men that had killed the High King.

  
With a last angry cry, Elrond jerked awake. Hands were upon him. He rolled away violently and came to his feet, tense and embittered. His assailant was far too slow and could get no defence up before the bearer was upon him, seeking vulnerable tendons and arteries. Strong arms tore him loose and held him tightly, despite his vicious thrashing.

Slowly, he regained some sense of reality and found himself staring into the hurt gaze of his son. Realizing who he had been trying to kill and feeling suddenly foolish for reacting so to a dream, Elrond fell back into the embrace holding him steady, shuddering.

Gil-Galad lowered him to the ground slowly, still whispering gentle things. Elrohir knelt beside him, watching his sire drop off to a restless sleep that seemed mercifully gentler than the first.

"That was the Alliance, wasn't it?" he asked softly.

Gil-Galad was silent, stroking the black hair nestled at his shoulder absently.

"He's talked of you, but never without pain."

Elrohir stared intently at him. The smile was sad, and it seemed he remained still in ages past. "He was a very troublesome child but I think no trace of that gentle creature lives still in him."

"He is kind!"

Gil-Galad chuckled. "Of course. But there lies no innocence in his manner. I sense it died long ago."

Elrohir sighed and lay back. "Died with you."

He didn't see the single tear that fell from the King's eternally laughing eyes.


End file.
